


Four Storms

by Sookiestark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dance of the Dragons, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sookiestark/pseuds/Sookiestark
Summary: Brief stories about each of Borros Baratheon's four daughters, who were known as the Four Storms.





	1. The Spring Storm

When spring returns to the stormlands, spring storms come. Spring storms are sweet in the stormlands and welcomed. The gentle drops of rain wash the ice and snow away and help the first blossom of green and flowers. The winds blow gently, warm with just a hint of chill.

 

I am Ellyn. I am the Spring Storm, the unknown storm. The wet wonderful gentle storm of spring, Barely spoken, barely known. 

A whisper at the Cattle’s Ball. The barest shadow of a smile from the boy King, Aegon III. A touch of his Uncle Aemond’s hand in my father’s hall long ago. Only worth a third of a ransom for my Mother's loyalty to the new regime. Not quite known. The promise of a kiss. The sweetness of a girl's blush. The smoothness of a maiden’s cheek. 

I was prettier than Maris, plainer than Floris. I was kinder than Cassandra, smarter than Cassandra, but not nearly as clever as Maris. I was completely unremarkable in any way, completely indistinguishable from the other three. Just another Baratheon girl with dark hair. I was unremarkable. Just another simple spring storm in the stormlands. If you read the story quickly, you will never remember my name. I will be gone like the memory of spring in summer, lost in the heat and sun.

I am forgettable.

Nothing. No words, no deeds to record, except one response to the King, not clever. It was a maiden's attempt at wit, a flirtation. Just like the smell of the sweet spring rain in the air. It makes you wistful and then you move on to your daily life, to the chores, to the history that matters. Nothing important. I am just a spring storm.


	2. The Summer Storm

In summer, the weather is more gentle in the Stormlands. Even, the storms are more gentle in the summer. Slowly, as summer ends, they grow in strength. By the harvests of late summer, the stormy skies will turn black and green. People will say that autumn is coming soon. 

Floris the Pretty named for Florys the Fox. Floris the Sweet Summer Storm. Floris the Mild. Floris the Beauty. Sweet as a rose. Lovely as a flower. 

I am the only one of my sisters known for her beauty. I am the one Aemond One-Eye chose. He had pulled me to his lap in my father’s hall, drunk on attention, drunk on the bloodlust of war. Aemond had said to me as he wrapped his hands around my waist so I could not escape, “This one. I chose this one. After all, I am second to the throne. I should have the best.”

He smiled a pretty smile. Aemond was very handsome even with the one eye, prettier than most me. But though I was not clever or sharp-tongued like Maris, I could see the cruelty in his face. 

Aemond did not care an ounce for my beauty. He wanted an army and he wanted the power to make people pay, pay for him being second-born, pay for not being the Prince of Dragonstone, pay for losing an eye, pay for his half-sister daring to take what was hers. After all, women were not supposed to have wishes, or power, or words, or wants. 

Under my father’s proud stare, Aemond kissed me roughly pushing his tongue in my mouth, grabbing at my newly formed breasts in the best dress I had. I stood in my father’s hall at Storm’s End, powerless to stop him as my father laughed at the sight. There was a cruelty to my prince and I wanted gentleness. I wanted a sweet burning desire, love, and passion. That was the first time a boy kissed me. 

I was eleven.

After he left in a swirl of black and silver hair, Cassandra pinched me hard until I had an angry bruise. I thought to hit her as I had thought to push Prince Aemond off me. I did neither. After all, I was Floris the Pretty, the sweetest of the Four Storms.

 

Aemond never came back and I never saw him again

 

I heard later that Aemond had married another, a woods witch, a soothsayer, a bastard. My father roared and my mother said it would be best if we did not listen to gossip. After all, gossip was not the truth. But Father was slighted and a slight to a Baratheon is no small thing. So, instead of fighting for the Greens, he marched to the Dornish Marches to put down the Dornish threat. 

Mother had just found out she was pregnant. She was so happy, almost radiant. Mother was so careful, so gentle that year. After all, she was almost too old to give birth. All her daughters were almost grown, old enough to be mothers themselves. We knew she hoped for a boy at her age. Father had said nothing but we all knew he hoped for a boy. We all had failed him by not being boys. We were useless to him. 

My father came back from the Dornish Marches victorious and he brought a young squire with him, Steffon Connington. Steffon was red-haired like the sun at sunset and his laugh was lovely and thick. He could dance and draw and knew a bit of Valyrian love poetry. I could not speak a word of Valyrian but it sounded so lovely to hear him speak it. I swear I fell in love with him the first time I saw him. 

But I was sworn to Aemond, whether he had married another or not. Also, I had lost my position as the most honored daughter. By then, King Aegon II had lost his Queen and he had made a desperate deal that he would marry Cassandra, my eldest sister, as long as father came with his army to stop the rebellious Blacks.

My sister, Cassandra, had gloated like a prize pig, whispering, “Being Queen is so much better than marrying a Prince.” 

Before Father left, he took me to the garden on the last warm day in that autumn. It almost felt like summer and spoke as gently as he could, “The King will make his brother put the whore-witch aside and two of my daughters will sit beside Targaryens. Who knows if I win this war for the King? Maybe Ellyn will marry Daeron?” 

Father laughed and kissed my forehead and told me to be a good girl and help Mother. He left Young Steffon Connington to keep us safe. After all, it was the most dangerous of times. 

 

We heard Aemond died and Mother made me wear black though I felt no grief over my betrothed. After all, there were deals to be made, armies to be had, and a war to be won. I was to marry Larys Strong within a fortnight of the news that Aemond had died. I was told by Mother that I would marry Larys Strong, the heir to House Strong and haunted keep of Harrenhal. I thought what a mysterious and terrible place to go and spend all my days. But Mother told me Larys was clever and Larys was loyal. 

I never met Larys. We sent him my portrait in a locket with a strand of my hair. I wrote him a formal letter, polite, pleasant, talking of how I was excited to meet him.

Cassandra laughed and said Larys was lame.

Larys sent a messenger with boxes, presents for his betrothed. In the boxes were dresses, gloves, jewelry, spices from Tyrosh, books, and sweet candy from Oldtown made with honey. He included a letter that said "I hope you like the gifts as I do not know what you like. But I hope to know soon all the things that bring you joy."

I read the words as my sister Ellyn poured over the dresses and baubles. I looked at his words, the gifts and thought perhaps, this is a man who wants gentleness, sweet desire, passion, and love. I thought to myself perhaps it would not be the worst to marry this clever man who outwitted the Blacks. He would never win tourneys and he would never dance with me but perhaps, we might find our way together.

Steffon teased me with his dark hair that would shine red in the light. He teased me for being a lovestruck girl. He pulled the letter from my hand. I chased him around the room, laughing until he caught me in his arms and kissed me. Awkward, he let me go. For a fortnight, Steffon and I did not speak to one another. We avoided each other's eyes and the meaning behind the glances.

 

The night word came back that Father had been killed, I found him in the godswood at Storm's End and I kissed him. I promised Steffon I would love only him. Steffon swore a thousand times he would wait forever for me. I had kissed him furiously and lost my maidenhead pressed up against an old oak tree, as he whispered he loved me a hundred times. I felt my heart explode at the sweet burning desire that filled me, ripe like summer's bounty. Steffon was my love, my heart.

 

I never met Larys. His head had been removed from his body before I had the chance to meet him. When my second betrothed was executed, I thought for sure my mother would let me marry Steffon. But she sent me to King's Landing to be a hostage for her good behavior. 

That was the only night I raged. I threw things and screamed, "I will not! I will not go! I will stay here! I am no broodmare! I will do as I wish!"

My mother had recently given birth to her son, my brother. She spoke with all the force of a storm. "You will do as I say or send you to live with your sister, Maris!" 

I found Steffon and he bedded me in my mother's bed. I was thirteen and he was fourteen. I loved him fiercely and he told me he would wait. 

Floris the Mild. Floris the Maid. Floris the Sweetest Storm of all. 

I didn’t even change the sheets when we were finished. 

I was as willful as the rest. 

 

I was married off to Thaddeus Rowan at 14. In less than a year, I was pregnant. 

I wept when I learned that my mother married Steffon. All the sweet burning desire. All the love he whispered was just hot air, just a summer's breeze. I laughed and I cursed my mother for she knew I loved him. I cursed him. Steffon died in less than a year from his wedding day. When he died, I remember thinking I should not have let the curses slip from my lips. Perhaps I caused it. Sweet as a rose. Lovely as a flower. Floris the Pretty. Floris the Mild. 

What good is a pretty face if you have no power? What good is a woman who has no words, no power but still has wants and desire? She is as useless as a summer storm.


End file.
